


Impressions

by blackkat



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Episode: s02e12 Army of Ghosts, M/M, Pre-Series, Psychic!Ianto, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto Jones is an unhappy, unwilling, and heartsick employee of Torchwood in the 24th century. Falling through the Rift and landing in 21st century Cardiff is a chance to start again. But once Torchwood, always Torchwood, especially when Captain Jack Harkness poses such an interesting temptation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impressions

Ianto Jones comes into existence in the middle of a rainstorm.

(Or, well, he comes into _this_ existence.)

There is nothing around him, and no one coming. Ianto stands in the middle of an empty street, a good three centuries before he is actually born, as the Welsh sky tries to drown him and the gutters overflow around his feet.

It’s not the most auspicious beginning, but it could be far, far worse.

(Ianto knows this. He’s Torchwood, after all, no matter that reality he’s in.)

*.~.*.~.*

Back in the 24th century, Ianto Jones is no one particularly special, just another worker drone in the vast hive that is Torchwood.

(Well. That’s a bit of a lie, isn’t it? But he’s hardly _singular_ , even if he is a bit more miserable than most.)

If he really wanted to, he could go back to being Torchwood in this time period. They’d accept him easily enough—falling through the Rift is always a danger in Cardiff—and from what he’s read Captain Jack Harkness is quite willing to take in strays.

He most vehemently does not want to, though.

*.~.*.~.*

Ianto is nothing if not adaptable. None of his contacts exist yet, but the concept is the same regardless of the time period, so he knows where to look for the kinds of things he wants.

Going back to Torchwood is out of the question, as is going home. He’s been trying for too long to escape to step willingly back into those traps.

So he finds some people, gets the minimum of necessary papers, and settles down to life in a century not his own. It’s not so bad, really, and the coffee is lovely. There's a bit of an adjustment on the technological side of things, but Ianto’s studied the 21st century before and knows enough to get by.

Really, at this point, just about anything will be better than the 24th century. And maybe, just possibly, this can even be _good_.

*.~.*.~.*

“Well, Mr. Jones, your resume looks fine,” the cheerful young woman says. She’s the manager, but she’s obscenely young, even compared to Ianto himself. She still has _acne_. “I think the Coffee Hut will benefit from a mind like yours.”

Ianto smiles thinly at that. His mind has always been his most valuable feature, his memory a steel trap that nothing escapes. Already he’s catalogued and analyzed every motion the current barista has made since he first stepped in for his interview. He knows the secret ingredient they add to their coffee from the smell and the taste of the brew in the single cup he bought while applying. He also knows that the Coffee Hut—and really, what a terribly unimaginative name—is already deeply in debt, and that the woman in front of him is one of four owners, all of whom are currently at loggerheads.

She’s pregnant, and trying to hide it.

It’s not her steady boyfriend’s child, but her other business partner’s.

How awkward.

(Ianto doesn’t know those last few things just because of his memory or attention to detail, though; he’s a bit more special than just that. Torchwood wouldn’t have kept him the way they did otherwise.)

Impressions, Lisa called them, before Torchwood killed her and Ianto nearly killed himself and a good percentage of the world’s population trying to find some way to save her. He gets _impressions_ about things, vague ideas that can be easily verified by paying attention. Almost precognition, nearly retrocognition, with a good dose of clairvoyance thrown in—but not any of those, because those are human things, and Ianto Jones is not entirely human.

“Who knows,” the woman—nearly a girl, really—says with a cheery smile. “With that kind of head for detail, maybe someday you’ll be manager.”

*.~.*.~.*

Ianto doesn’t become manager.

(Within seven months, he’s managed to accumulate enough contacts and amass enough funds—the legality is somewhat sketchy, but bartering and selling information, especially among newly arrived aliens, is something Ianto’s always been good at, and has always done—to buy the place out one partner at a time.

He’s now the owner.)

*.~.*.~.*

He dreams of the twenty-fourth century, dreams of long, dark corridors and shining silver doors, each one opening onto a bare, immaculate white room. He’s walking, feet aching because there are far too many rooms to ever see them all, but he _has_ to. He owes it to the occupants, the ones he was never able to save. Six hundred children of alien descent, trapped beneath Torchwood One, in the levels that are designated, where no one ever sees them, as Torchwood Four.

Records say that Four vanished sometime in the twentieth century. In reality, they simply went underground. Canary Wharf was a blow to them, the loss of the Tower setting their operation back decades, almost centuries, but they rebuilt in the end.

Ianto’s a product of that rebuilding, and their dubious hospitality. He’s been a part of Torchwood Four since he was five years old, which is longer ago than most people would think.

Most days, Ianto can't even remember a time when there was anything else.

*.~.*.~.*

There is another traveler in Cardiff who was displaced from the twenty-fourth century, an Arcateenian who fled war on his home world only to fall through the Rift. Ianto has met a few of his species, and many of them can't contain their contempt for humans, but Emrys (an adopted name, not his real one) enjoys being on Earth.

As soon as Ianto walks in his door, Emrys looks at him and Ianto can tell he _knows_.

(Only the very lucky or the very rich manage to escape Torchwood Four if they have alien blood. Ianto’s family was neither lucky nor rich.)

“Congratulations on finding freedom, son of Bandraginus V,” Emrys tells him, before Ianto can so much as greet him.

Not many are able to identify his mother’s planet just by looking at him—even fewer, now, because Bandraginus V was destroyed by Zanak, the pirate planet, for its mineral wealth. But Emrys is a star poet, and deeper than he appears. Ianto nods carefully.

“Thank you,” he answers, and if his throat is a little tight, neither of them mentions it.

By unspoken agreement, they never mention the twenty-fourth century, Torchwood Four, Arcateen V, or Bandraginus V again. Ianto would like to think that they get along rather well, even then.

Emrys is the first to pay him to deal with a group of troublesome blowfish. Because he kindly spreads word of just what Ianto is capable of, he’s most certainly not the last.

Business, to use rather passé terms, is booming.

*.~.*.~.*

The Coffee Hut closes four days after the sale is finalized.

Three weeks later, the Sun in a Cup opens in the same place, manned (more or less) by Ianto and the most qualified local to apply for the position, a young girl named Annie.

(Annie confesses that if she hadn’t gotten the job at the Sun, she’d have gone to Jubilee Pizza across the Plass. Ianto thinks about this bright, pretty girl being stuck delivering pizzas night after night as she works to pay for school and has to bite back a shudder. Really, she’s eminently more suited to being a barista. And he pays quite well.)

They don’t serve quite the variety of froufrou drinks the old shop used to, but what they do offer is of an immeasurably higher quality. Ianto loves coffee, and the blend of beans he uses is enough to convince the staunchest latte-lover to drink it black. Ianto also has a knack for knowing just what a customer wants, or recommending something they didn’t even know they wanted in the first place.

Some might call it abusing his powers, but Ianto’s always taken a rather liberal view of that kind of thing—a byproduct, no doubt, of never being allowed to use them at all the first few years after Torchwood found him.

Regardless of the how, Ianto soon has a steady stream of regulars and a good amount of new customers. His overheads aren’t too high, even after hiring a local immigrant from Barcelona (the planet, not the city) to bake for them each day. He works all day in the shop and digs ever deeper into Cardiff’s alien underbelly at night, his mother’s heritage opening one door after another.

Soon enough, Ianto is back in the position of knowing everything, standing at the crosscurrent of a hundred different streams of information. No one moves in the underworld without his knowledge, but almost no one knows his real name or can connect him with anything else.

He’s the most powerful ghost to walk the streets of Cardiff, and that’s just how he likes it.

*.~.*.~.*

And then, of course, Captain Jack Harkness shows up and tears down everything Ianto’s been trying so hard to build.

*.~.*.~.*

Ianto has, of course, heard of Captain Jack Harkness before. The man is a legend in 24th century Torchwood, a shadow figure who appears out of nowhere every other generation or so. Ostensibly, his job is to steer Torchwood back on track and keep them from devolving into the same organization as was responsible for the Battle of Canary Wharf.

Ianto is aware, however, that Harkness does not know everything about Torchwood.

Torchwood Four, in particular, has always been a carefully guarded secret, even from Torchwood’s lord and master.

(He can't help but wonder, though, despite having long given up such flights of fancy, what Harkness would do if he ever learned of the vast army of half-alien slave-drones beneath his feet.)

(That’s an entirely melodramatic thought, however, and Ianto dismisses it easily enough.)

*.~.*.~.*

There is a bell above the Sun in a Cup’s door, because Ianto likes the tradition of it.

(He also likes the early warning, but that’s another matter entirely.)

It rings at precisely 6:27 that morning, when sunrise’s shadows are finally dissipating from the Plass. Ianto looks up from his book (a study on the effects of chocolate on the human brain, which he’s reading because he’s curious and because he can) and into the brightest, whitest smile he’s ever had the fortune to encounter.

“Hel- _lo_ ,” a warm voice purrs, and then an exquisitely muscled body drapes itself over the counter in front of Ianto. There’s a pair of blue eyes in there somewhere, Ianto recognizes, but his brain is otherwise too dazed by thoughts of _ooh, shiny,_ and _oh, WANT_ to pay truly close attention.

“Good morning,” he manages weakly, once his tongue has untangled itself enough to speak.

The handsome, strong-boned face—like a film star from the beginning of the twentieth century, Ianto thinks torpidly—pulls back enough that Ianto can take in the whole picture, rather than just a snapshot here and there of teeth and eyes and sandy brown hair. It’s a good face, beautiful in an utterly masculine way, and Ianto’s fingers itch to touch.

This isn’t him. This is _never_ him. He is always in control, collected, self-possessed. He doesn’t drool over a pretty face this way, _ever_. It unnerves him, almost as much as the man in front of him.

And then, of course, the shock only doubles when the man offers a big, strong hand and says, “You must be new, because I _know_ I’d remember a face like yours. Captain Jack Harkness, _at_ _your service_ , gorgeous.”

The last words are all but dripping dirty promises, and Ianto has to pause for a heartbeat to scrape up a few functioning brain cells before he dares take the man’s hand— _Captain Jack Harkness’s_ hand, dear gods.

The legends have never said anything about _this_.

(Which is a shame; Ianto rather thinks more people would pay attention if presented with shot of Captain Harkness’s truly impressive arse in those trousers.)

*.~.*.~.*

The bell chimes again as Captain Harkness leaves, offering Ianto one last chance to stare at his arse before he shrugs on a long WWII greatcoat and unfortunately covers his, well, assets. He disappears across the Plass, plain coffee with a bit of cream firmly in hand, and Ianto lets out a mournful sigh before he can help himself.

(Really, he’s _never_ been this bad before. It’s the man’s pheromones, it has to be. Even if Ianto doesn’t have the faintest recollection what they smell like, and can only remember blue, blue eyes and a bright grin.)

“So,” Annie says loftily, from her perch on a stool behind the pastry bar. “That’s your type, is it?”

Ianto groans and drops his head onto the register, which beeps at him with a distinctly annoyed tone. “I am your employer,” he reminds her, voice muffled by the keypad. “I sign your cheques. A little more sensitivity would not go amiss if you ever want to see another raise.”

Annie, damn her, is even more damnably Welsh, and just snickers wickedly in the face of his threat. Ianto tries to remind himself of why he hired her, and fails.

(Except, of course, that this _is_ the reason.)

*.~.*.~.*

Ianto’s network is astonishingly tight-lipped on the matter of Captain Harkness. It’s not entirely fear, either, as it once was in regards to Yvonne Hartman. There’s a surprising amount of protectiveness for the Captain, especially considering what he does. But then, maybe that’s the point, because Jack Harkness doesn’t bow to Torchwood’s usual “If it’s alien, it’s ours” policy. If anything, he goes out of his way to protect and acclimate aliens and the Rift-taken to twenty-first century Cardiff.

Ianto has no other source of information, though, so he keeps asking.

He gets no impressions from Captain Harkness.

Nothing.

Even less than he would get from the dead.

But no one is talking, there's no information to be had except for a few hints here and there, and Ianto is forced to scale back his inquiries for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention.

Annie might not know everything about him—the alien part, or the part where he’s from the future—but she knows he’s more than he seems. She also seems to take great enjoyment in watching him beat his head against the brick wall that is his attraction to Jack Harkness.

Most days, he’s _really_ not sure why he hired her, except that the Sun would fall apart without her now.

*.~.*.~.*

The bell above the door chimes again, three days later, and Ianto looks up (this time it’s a medical study on aconite poisoning in both modern and historical times) to see a bedraggled, weary quartet troop in. Captain Harkness is at their head, coat battered and filthy, face smudged with what looks suspiciously like soot. There’s grief written into his handsome features, a grief Ianto knows all too well—he’s lost someone he considered his, someone close to him.

Ianto is mixing Irish coffees before he even realizes what he’s doing.

Annie joins him without a signal needing to be given, and at Ianto’s speaking glance pulls four slices of rich Black Forest Cake from the pastry counter. Ianto takes the coffees, she takes the food, and they have a table laid out before Captain Harkness can even stand up to place an order.

“On the house, sir,” Ianto tells him softly, nods to his team—two women, one clearly Japanese and just as clearly withdrawn in her grief, the other sharp-featured and angry at everything; one man, with a somewhat pointy face and a darkly brooding expression—and then retreats to give them their privacy.

Nevertheless, he hears Jack’s quiet murmur of, “To Martin, the stupid brave bastard. We’ll miss him,” and the soft clink of them all tapping glasses.

It’s a mad impulse, but Ianto thinks in that moment he’d do whatever was necessary to keep Captain Harkness— _Jack_ —from ever looking like that again.

*.~.*.~.*

It is, in the end, astonishingly simple to carry out his plan. Ianto’s network more than provides the information he needs, whispers of an attempted invasion repeated over and over if one knows the right places to listen.

Ianto takes those whispers, twists them together, wrings out the truth, and then leaves all of his information about the impending threat in a note he pins to the door of the Tourist Office.

It’s easy enough to ensure that he isn’t seen, but whoever enters that way will see the note first thing. There's also little reason to hide it or put it in code—anyone not in the know is likely to think it a prank or a joke.

Ianto ensures, with a few carefully placed words, that Captain Harkness won't.

(He’s not entirely sure _why_ he’s doing this, except that Captain Harkness had looked so absolutely, understatedly devastated when he came in, and Ianto doesn’t ever want to see the man like that again.)

(Captain Jack Harkness should always be smiling; Ianto doesn’t even have to use his ability to know that much.)

*.~.*.~.*

Perhaps it is his re-involvement with Torchwood, but the nightmares have returned full-force since Ianto encountered the Captain.

There is a long corridor in his dreams, a hallway with no end and far too many rooms on either side. Each one houses a child who will grow up to be a man or woman, knowing only Torchwood and what they are ordered to do.

A lucky few, like Ianto, might manage to develop a will of their own.

The majority will not.

In this, at least, Ianto’s memory is a curse. He knows them all by sight, knows all of their faces and most of their stories, and he’ll never forget.

Someone should remember them, though.

No one else will, so it falls to him, even though he is in a time when none of them yet exist.

Their stories are hardly singular, as much as it pains him.

They will always exist, as long as Torchwood Four does.

Ianto wishes, with all his heart and soul, that he could change that.

*.~.*.~.*

Lisa had never been like the rest of them in Torchwood Four. She hadn’t been born half alien, but changed, the only survivor of a Cyberman attack that left her partially converted.

Torchwood Four had taken her immediately, gleeful and greedy and destructively curious about what kept her mostly human when most others gave in to the programming within hours. But Lisa Hallett defied categorization.

She always did, Ianto knew.

Because of his unique talent, the Handlers—the caretakers and minders and scientists of Four—brought Ianto to her room every day, wanting to know how far the conversion had progressed. Every day, they asked the same question, and Ianto looked at the sweet, beautiful woman strapped to the conversion unit, eternally in pain, and gave them the same answer.

“Human,” he always said. “She’s human.”

Because she was, even when the programming was taking her over.

Even when she was fading by the hour.

Even when there was only a tiny spark of Lisa remaining.

It didn't matter, because _she knew him_. She saw him and smiled at him and never showed the pain that ate at her, the fear that overwhelmed her.

And Ianto was just the kind of hopeless fool to love her for it.

So he never said anything about the advancing cyber-conversion, worked on his own to find a cure, because Torchwood Four had no cure, only experiments to perform and twisted curiosities to satisfy.

He could hardly be bothered to care when the inevitable came to pass. Maybe it was partly selfish of him to feel so, because he gained his freedom from it, but his freedom came at a high cost.

Lisa died, and she took far too many with her.

One fully converted Cyberwoman was nearly enough to topple Torchwood Four, and Ianto walked out of the flaming rubble only to be taken by the Rift.

Perhaps there were others who escaped.

Perhaps not.

Either way, Ianto never looked back.

*.~.*.~.*

Despite the loss of one team member in an already small team, Torchwood is, as ever, resilient. Torchwood Three keeps on, and Ianto sees them shooting in and out of the Plass every few hours for the next three days. Despite their hectic, slapdash method of saving the world, they're actually fairly competent, and the invasion is averted with moments to spare.

Ianto looks up from wiping off one of the tables as they troop in, moods infinitely lighter than the last time, and feels his breath catch when Captain Harkness grins at him.

 _Blinding_ is a good word for that smile.

But Ianto is professional, always, and manages to hide the fact that his heart is whirling and flipping around in his chest. He straightens and tucks his rag into a pocket of his apron, then approaches the table the four have claimed.

(The Japanese woman looks at the pointy-faced man. _She’s in love,_ Ianto’s gift tells him.)

(The pointy-faced man looks at the curly-haired woman. _They’re having an affair_ , Ianto’s gift tells him.)

(The curly-haired woman doesn't look at anyone, thoughts obviously elsewhere. _She’ll die soon. Forced to suicide,_ Ianto’s gift tells him.)

(Captain Jack Harkness looks at Ianto with a slow, appreciative sweep of eyes, and Ianto’s gift is absolutely silent.)

“What would you like today?” Ianto asks, smile professional and eyes forced away from Captain Harkness’ too-blue gaze. “Coffees all around, and an order of éclairs?”

“Sounds good,” Captain Harkness says, and Ianto’s attention is drawn back to him like a magnet finding true North. The man is still smiling, an inviting quirk of the lips, and it’s _gorgeous_. “Do you come with that, too?”

Ianto wants to stutter, or blush, or melt into a gooey little puddle at his feet, but manages to hold off well enough to parry with, “No, sir, and that’s harassment. Be careful, or I’ll only serve you instant.”

Harkness’ grin widens in delight, and he straightens up a little in his chair. Ianto gets the impression (not an _impression_ , but a normal feeling) of a lion grabbing for a particularly careless gazelle. “Oh, anything but that. I’d miss those gorgeous vowels if you did anything to drive me away.”

“Oi, get a room,” the pointy-faced man snaps, leaning away from the Captain with a huff. “I just want a victory coffee, Harkness, without you turning my stomach. Is that too much to ask?”

“Apparently,” the taller woman murmurs, even though her mind is on something else. ( _Plans_ , Ianto’s gift says. _She’s planning something dangerous. Pilgrim, look for Pilgrim. Beware of the glove._ )

Ianto files the warning away in the back of his mind, already preparing another letter for the Tourist Office door, and offers them a smile as he goes to get their order.

Annie is watching him, wickedness in her eyes, but even Ianto’s gift shies away from that level of cunning.

He’d be wary, if he weren’t so distracted by Harkness’ bright-hot gaze resting so firmly on him.

*.~.*.~.*

It’s the first night, after that, where he doesn't dream of blood and fire and Lisa for at least part of the night.

Rather, he dreams of his mother and grandmother and a line of ancestors stretching back into infinity, all turning their heads to look at him where he stands in the line.

 **FOUND** , they whisper, and it is vast in his ears.

**CHILD OF OUR LINEAGE, YOU HAVE FOUND YOUR MATCH.**

It is terrifying, if only for the fact that it isn’t terrifying at all.

*.~.*.~.*

Ianto did, at one point, have a normal family. He had a mother and a sister and a father, and they were probably good, solid, kind people.

Except that his father had an affair.

Except that his real mother was an alien.

Except that the woman he grew up calling “Mam” wasn't related to him at all.

Except that Torchwood came for him on his fifth birthday, right in the middle of his party, and took him away.

If he had seen Tad or Mam or Rhiannon again after that, he never knew it was them. Even now, so distant from the horrors of Four and their casual cruelty, Ianto can't call up more than the most vague recollections of them, and for someone with his memory that's maddening.

(Tragic, some might call it, but Ianto’s had so much tragedy in his life that he reserves that label for the things that truly deserve it.)

*.~.*.~.*

The Torchwood team has become a regular sight in the Sun in a Cup ever since the thwarted invasion—not that they've connected Ianto to it; he’s better than that. It’s rather nice, because Ianto genuinely likes them and thinks they are good people, but it makes running his second business a little more difficult.

Thankfully, those who come to request his help have worked out a system that’s fairly foolproof.

“Good morning, Ianto,” Emrys says genteelly, stepping through the shop’s door and removing his hat. He looks like a stately older gentleman, his hair just going white but his body still strong, and he smiles in a way that is catching.

Ianto serves Ms. Sato, the Torchwood tech, her chai latte and smiles back at the Arcateenian. “Emrys, good day. What can I do for you?”

The tap of Emrys’s walking stick is a soft counterpoint to his footsteps as he comes to lean against the counter. “I believe I'm in the mood for some of your special blend, Ianto. Three pounds, if you can part with it.”

“Of course,” Ianto answers automatically, even though his mind is already leaping ahead. People asking for his “special blend” is the same as people asking for his help, and “three pounds” means it’s quite the hefty problem indeed.

Many of Cardiff’s alien or half-alien occupants have learned to go through Emrys to get what help they need, so it isn’t necessarily _his_ problem either. It could be anything.

Something in Ianto’s blood stirs at the thought of a challenge.

But for now, Ms. Sato is still watching him, money in hand, so he pushes it away and gives her the correct change, sees her out before he turns to Emrys once more.

“Is that offer of delivery perhaps still available?” Emrys asks easily, one long-fingered hand tapping a rhythmic tattoo against the counter. “I've gotten some new books in that I think you’d like, Ianto.”

Ianto looks up at Annie, who’s watching him with eyes that see far more than most. She reads the question in his expression and nods, sliding into his former spot by the cash register.

“Of course,” Ianto answers, utterly polite, as he turns back to Emrys. “I’d be delighted.”

*.~.*.~.*

The “problem” turns out to be a man who has set up a clock shop near Emrys’s bookstore, a man who is as much out of time as they are. Normally, Ianto would let another of the Rift-taken live in peace, but this man is not like himself and Emrys.

Bilis Manger and his master are a threat to Ianto’s city, and he does not take well to threats.

*.~.*.~.*

Jack Harkness is, truly, a gorgeous human being, Ianto thinks.

He most certainly does not sigh like a lovesick schoolgirl, however, even as he watches Harkness from under his lashes as he wipes down the counter. The Captain is at one of the window tables with Ms. Sato, eating cake and drinking spiced cider, and he has a dot of buttercream frosting on the corner of his lower lip.

Annie pointedly clears her throat, and Ianto realizes he’s been rubbing at the same section of countertop for nearly five minutes now. Flushing—and cursing his fair Welsh skin that it is so readily apparent—Ianto slinks over to the register to continue his cleaning.

Another moment of eyeing her boss carefully, and Annie collects her tray, pastes on her best smile, and heads for Harkness' table.

Ianto watches her go with dread building in his chest. A curse on meddlers, he thinks petulantly, especially pretty Welsh ones named Annie.

(Before she can do too much damage to Ianto’s ego with her quietly murmured conversation—no more than a minute’s worth, at the most—the Captain is called away by what is undoubtedly a Rift alert. He swirls his coat up around his shoulder, tosses Ianto a cheerful, gorgeous wink, and is gone like a small hurricane taking off.

Ianto most certainly _does not_ sigh like a lovesick schoolgirl in his wake.)

*.~.*.~.*

Of course, nothing can continue in this way indefinitely. Ianto’s luck tends towards the lower end of “horrid” at the best of times, and when he’s within reach of something he wants the trend is twice as obvious.

It happens in the most incriminating way possible, too, and Ianto can't even be disappointed by that.

He’s found Pilgrim, pulled together all the information he can about the strange gauntlet that the Torchwood team pulled out of the harbor, and even engaged the services of a low-level projective telepath to help break the conditioning on Suzie Costello’s puppet-man, Max. The obvious next step is to leave the information somewhere Harkness will find it.

But he forgets to check the date before he goes.

The Ghost Shifts start as he’s pinning the information to the Tourist Office door, and suddenly Ianto _can't think_ , can't _breathe_ , because there are a thousand screaming voices in his head at the same time that there is _nothingness_.

Ianto has never felt such nothingness is all his life. It eats at him, devours him, tears him apart from the inside out, and all Ianto can do is clutch his head and try not to voice the scream building in his throat.

 _Torchwood,_ he thinks blearily, attempting to fight his way through the pain. _Only Torchwood hurts like this._

The last thing he is aware of is a pair of hands on his shoulders, rough wool against his cheek as someone lifts him bodily from the ground.

Then there is only darkness, and Ianto welcomes it like an old friend.

*.~.*.~.*

Jack Harkness stares down at the man in his arms, unsure if what he’s feeling is surprise or exasperated fondness.

It stands to reason that this man would be so much more than he appeared.

With a last glance at the strange, blurry figures of the “ghosts” striding with odd, jerky fluidity across the Plass, Jack hefts the man—and how odd, now, to realize that they've flirted every time Jack enters the Sun in a Cup, but Jack's never gotten his name—a little higher in his arms, tucks the warning from the door a little deeper in his pocket, and heads for the invisible lift.

“You,” he informs his burden, “have some explaining to do.”

*.~.*.~.*

Emrys has been alive for a very long time.

Even by the reckoning of his people, he is old. Compared to the ephemeral humans with whom he now surrounds himself, he is godlike, as near to immortal as it is possible to be while still remaining vulnerable.

He has seen so much, done so much, that at one point he had considered himself beyond surprise. He’d thought nothing anyone did or was could startle him anymore.

And then he met Ianto Jones.

Ianto is…different.

He is surprising.

To Emrys, he is a bright, burning torch against the pale grey backdrop of a fairly bland life, and Emrys is surprised yet again at how much he relishes Ianto’s light, Ianto’s friendship. The son of a dead world, a shattered people, and the exiled poet of another, they are hardly alike, but at the same time all too similar.

(They are both vicious, too, beneath the immaculately courteous exteriors. Emrys appreciates this above all else.)

*.~.*.~.*

Every clock in the small, crowded shop is chiming, all at once, and the racket is deafening. Emrys leans on his cane across the street and wonders how long it will take the humans to call their emergency services, because even the most unobservant among them will notice _this_ , midnight though it is.

There is a ripple in time, like water disturbed by a stone, and a man falls through it, aged and terrified despite what he is. He rolls across the tarmac and comes to a stop nearly at Emrys’s feet, attempting to stand.

Casually, Emrys reaches out and lays his cane along the line of Bilis Manger’s throat. “I wouldn't, were I you,” he advises genially, and Manger stills.

He knows the cane for what it is.

Emrys smiles at that, because he might have been exiled for his writings, but that's not the only reason his people considered him dangerous enough to strand on a backwater planet like Earth in the twenty-fourth century.

The door of the shop swings open, increasing the cacophony of clocks for the moment it takes for Ianto to exit, dusting off his hands. He smiles at Emrys, never more terrifying than when he is cold and angry, and looks down at Manger.

“You and your master,” he says simply, “are not welcome on this planet. Take your leave.”

(He’s a dangerous man, this lost son of Bandraginus V, and Emrys never allows himself to forget it. Because despite what Torchwood Four has done to him, Ianto loves Earth. He loves it with the same passion that a madman loves his salvation, or an addict his fix.

Emrys does not look too closely at that metaphor, for fear of what he will realize if he does.)

*.~.*.~.*

Manger flees, far and fast and never to return.

Emrys does not even try to feel surprise.

Of the many startling things about Ianto Jones, his competence is not one of them.

*.~.*.~.*

The Ghost Shifts start, as Emrys always knew they would—he’s no Time Lord, has little knowledge of how the threads of time weave together, but he can tell a fixed point when it’s staring him in the face.

Because he is a good man, for all he is and has done, he collects himself and goes to seek Ianto, whose gifts will put him at a disadvantage when dealing with the creatures the witless humans have termed “ghosts.” He pities them, though he knows he will be able to do little to help.

The Cybermen are terrifying, insidious, and all Emrys can do is offer sanctuary to a select few who know him for what he is. Arcateenians cannot be converted, which will afford some protection to those with him.

But he’s too late. When he arrives, Ianto is in the Plass, falling. Emrys gathers himself to run, to go to him, but before he can there is another man there, one Emrys knows very well.

Captain Jack Harkness catches Ianto before he can crumple to the ground, gathers him up as though he weighs nothing at all and looks down at him with something indefinable on his face.

 _Oh_ , Emrys thinks, settling back into place and leaning thoughtfully on his cane. There is a smile pulling at his face as he recalls something from this world’s future, something from his past. _Oh, I think I see now._

*.~.*.~.*

Sanity and consciousness return at the same time, and Ianto takes a breath of cool damp air. It’s free of pain, which is fairly startling until he realizes that no matter how real his impressions are, they are simply mental.

 _It’s all in my head, of course_ , Ianto thinks, and that thought is far more amusing than it should be. He sighs, because there's no use in putting off his return to the real world, and opens his eyes.

Captain Jack Harkness is staring down at him.

Ianto blinks.

Harkness’ lips quirk slightly, the prelude to a grin, and he moves back slightly so that Ianto can sit up. “Good morning, Mr. Jones.”

“Ianto, please.” He does so, raising a hand to his head. There's a headache hovering just out of range, waiting to pounce, but Ianto hopes it will hold off for now. He prefers to face this inquisition with all of his faculties at their best. “You've been trying to get into my pants for a month now. If that doesn't breed at least that much familiarity, I'm scared to think what it would take.”

Harkness laughs at that, his expression delighted, and seizes Ianto’s hand to plant a cheesy kiss on the knuckles. “Ianto, then,” he allows, and Ianto has never seen eyes quite that blue before. They're breathtaking. “And you'll just have to call me Jack. Now, want to explain what this is about?” He offers up the piece of paper Ianto had left with his notes on Suzie’s betrayal, and though the amusement never fades completely from his face, there's something darker underneath it, as well.

“Ah.” For a moment, Ianto can't think, can't speak. The game is up, and he’s been caught flat-footed and without an explanation. He takes the paper carefully, reads over what he had written, and then looks back up at Jack.

But Jack's not looking at his face anymore. His eyes are on Ianto’s forearm, where his sleeve has been rolled up. Doubtless Dr. Harper did it for a medical reason, but he’d neglected to push it back down, and now Ianto’s movements have made it ride up far enough that his Torchwood Four tattoo is clear to the world.

Jack clearly knows the brand for what it is, judging by the dark look on his face.

Ianto closes his hand over the mark of Torchwood’s ownership, though the gesture is too late to hide anything. He hates the tattoo more in that moment than he ever has before, even more than when they first inscribed it into his skin and shut him away like one more weapon in their arsenal, kept under lock and key until they needed him.

But then there are hands on his face, cupping his cheeks and drawing his gaze away from the ugly darkness of it. Jack meets his gaze, unwavering and so very, very brave, and says very softly, “Oh, Ianto.”

He understands. Ianto’s heart breaks because _he understands_.

Jack is from the future, the child of another time. Torchwood’s legacy—all parts of it—no doubt stretch far into the future, all the way to whatever time it is Jack was born in. Torchwood Four will not be a secret forever, no matter how much those who run it want it to be, and—

Jack _understands_. That's all Ianto needs to know.

“Yes,” he says, and is unspeakably proud of himself when the word doesn't break halfway through. “They…found me when I was a child. I escaped.”

Such simple words, so easy, for such a large and terrifying thing.

Ianto takes a breath, another. “I'm psychic, or thereabouts. I tried to warn you, because I _saw_ what would happen if I didn't. She’s already planned it, Jack, she’s already set in her ways and you can't—you can't _fix_ her, no matter how much you want to—”

“Shh.” Jack lays a finger over Ianto’s lips, stilling the rush of words, and smiles at him. It’s wan and weary and far too tired for the life-hungry creature that Jack always is, but it’s still a smile, and it eases Ianto’s heart to see it. “I’ll take care of Suzie, Ianto, but right now you have to tell me. What’s wrong with the ghosts outside? What happened when you saw them?”

Ianto takes another deep, fortifying breath. “They're not of this universe. I look at them and all I see is _nothing_ , like—”

“A void,” Jack finishes for him, frowning, and he stands with a whirl of his coat. “Torchwood One has found something from the Void, that must be what’s causing this. I have to get to London.”

It takes more effort that it should, but Ianto manages to stagger to his feet and hurry up the stairs after him. “Not alone, you don't. I can get you more information than One will give you. Bring me with you.”

He almost doesn't catch the gun and holster Jack tosses him, because he’s distracted by Jack's wide grin.

“I thought you’d never ask,” the Captain says, and then he’s gone.

Ianto is helpless to do anything but follow.

It feels _right_ , which is not nearly as terrifying as it should be.

*.~.*.~.*

London is very much as Ianto remembers it, for all that his version won't exist for centuries. It is damp and grey and busy, but there's a certain kind of _heart_ to the city that nothing else can match.

And, of course, there are the Ghosts.

(Ianto avoids looking at them, even when people in the street greet them with tears and joy and relief. He looks around, sees the blind belief everyone is wearing like blinders, and wonders how the human race can be so _stupid_.)

Jack heads for Canary Wharf and Torchwood Tower, to confront the problem at its source, while Ianto heads underground.

The hidden alien community in London is more tight-lipped than in Cardiff, but they're also far more welcoming when they learn that Ianto is (at least partly) one of them. It’s Hartman’s influence, Ianto supposes, as opposed to Jack's. In Cardiff aliens only really have to fear each other. Here, Torchwood One is the monster of their nightmares, and can turn generations-old enemies to brothers-in-arms in the space of a single day.

It is with utmost speed that the underground community provides Ianto with exactly the information he needs, and Ianto retreats to the Torchwood SUV to gather himself until Jack returns.

*.~.*.~.*

 “Run _,_ ” a Vespiform tells him, when she realizes where his roundabout questions are leading. “Out into the countryside, as far from anyone as you can. The Ghosts aren’t right, but they're only interested in the humans.”

Ianto wants to say that she’s a human hybrid, just like he is, but he can see the tattoo on her arm just as she can see his, and keeps his peace.

He’s hardly the only one Torchwood Four tore away from a happy family, after all.

He can understand her resentment, even if he doesn't share it.

*.~.*.~.*

Jack meets him outside of 1 West India Quay, which houses a ridiculously overpriced hotel. He looks tired and angry, mouth pulled into a tight line and fists clenched.

“Hartman,” he spits when Ianto raises a questioning eyebrow. “If I have to hear one more thing about ‘the glory of the British Empire,’ I'm going to stuff her into that cannon she’s so proud of and fire her over the city.”

Ianto snorts and shakes his head, then offers, “Whatever she’s doing, it’s got the alien community in an uproar. There's been more of a mass migration out of London in the past three days than there has in the past hundred years.”

“Safe energy,” Jack mutters, slumping against the side of the building and rubbing his face tiredly. “That's what she insists it is. A way to remove Britain’s dependence on foreign oil and bring back the Empire. She’s insane.”

Ianto remembers, if only vaguely from under a fog of drugs and pain, the leader of Four in the twenty-fourth century. He was insane, too, which makes Ianto wonder whether it’s a personality trait Torchwood looks for in its leaders.

(Except for Jack, of course, who is nothing like the normal Torchwood employee—nothing like _anyone_ , really.)

But it’s getting late, and tomorrow is yet another day, so Ianto takes them into the hotel, books a room—the man at the desk is another Arcateenian Emrys put him into contact with, and makes space for them with a nod and a smile—and ushers Jack up to the fifth floor. As soon as the door is closed behind them, Jack strips off his coat and sets to pacing, muttering under his breath.

Unlike Jack, though, Ianto needs sleep, so he strips efficiently, folds his clothes, and slides into the bed. He’s asleep almost as soon as he closes his eyes.

*.~.*.~.*

As the sound of Ianto’s breathing evens out, Jack forces his feet to a standstill and looks over at the bed.

He’s a beautiful man, Jack thinks musingly. Pale and strong and frighteningly competent, but there's still something fragile about him, something tired and heartsick that demands care, even as Ianto strides into situations that would make Jack quail. A paradox in human form, one that commands far more of Jack's attention than anything has in a long while.

With a soft sigh, Jack sinks down on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping man. It feels like he should say something, make some sort of confession to the darkness and near-silence, but he’s all mixed up inside his head, and nothing is coming to the surface.

At length, he simply lets himself fall backwards, sprawling across the mattress with one hand tantalizingly close to Ianto’s sleep-curled fingers, and closes his eyes.

(If he concentrates, he thinks, he can feel all of time spinning out from this one point.)

(This is where everything changes.)

*.~.*.~.*

There is a woman waiting for Ianto in the darkness, pale-skinned and dark-haired and sporting Ianto’s own tip-tilted nose. She smiles at him, his mother, and holds out her hands.

“You are Matched,” she says, sweet and soft, and Ianto can hear the capital letter she gives the term.

He also knows what she means, understands now in a way he never did before he saw the pained, gentle understanding on Jack's face in the Hub, and as he takes her hands he asks despairingly, “So I only love him because I'm Matched to him?”

How sad—for both of them—if that's the case.

But his mother shakes her head and pulls him close, inches from her. She leans in to kiss his forehead, fond and ever so faintly exasperated, and corrects, “No, silly boy. He’s your Match because you love him.”

Then she lets go of his hands, and the dream-vision fades back into stars and warmth and beauty.

 _Jack_ , Ianto thinks, and smiles in his sleep.

*.~.*.~.*

They try again the next day, and the next.

Jack stalks Torchwood, demanding answers.

Ianto disappears into London’s alien underbelly, coaxing information out of those remaining.

(They meet, during the day, for food and coffee and to trade whatever they've found, which always amounts to little.)

Torchwood doesn't know what the Ghosts are, and doesn't care.

The aliens of London care far more, but know equally little.

(Sometimes, Ianto thinks the little moments with Jack are all that keep him sane, are all that allow him to keep walking through a city rife with Ghosts and the impression of absolute nothingness waiting around each corner. Jack is his tether, grounding him in a way no one else ever has, not even Lisa.)

A week, another, and while they still haven’t learned more than rumors and bare whispers there is no longer worldwide panic over the Ghosts. People have accepted them, integrated them into their lives, and Ianto is certain, even without his impressions of death and destruction and the Void to help him to a conclusion, that this will only end badly.

*.~.*.~.*

And then Ianto hears something he had never expected to, even here and now: a grinding whirr, the sound of a savior he didn't realize was coming.

He jerks to his feet, the fairly decent coffee he had been drinking toppling to flood the café table, and spins in the direction that the sound—impression, it’s an impression and not a real sound, but it’s still _real_ —is coming from. The impression is almost overwhelming, and he closes his eyes against the force of it, the image of a blue police box sitting beside a children’s playground and a hyperactive man in a trench coat and a bleach-blond woman hurrying out.

“Ianto?” Jack demands, also rising. He’s wary, careful.

Ianto looks at him, knows the desperation is written clearly on his features by the expression on Jack's face, and says imploringly, “Jack, it’s the Doctor. We have to—”

He doesn't even have time to finish before Jack is on him with a whoop, kissing him quickly and sloppily on the mouth and seizing his arms to whirl him around. “The Doctor? Where? Ianto, we have to find, we have to get there! Now!”

“This way,” Ianto says, grabbing his hand and pulling him along as he darts into the crowd. This sudden enthusiasm from Jack is a little unnerving, but a good enough solution to their problem that Ianto can't find it in himself to worry.

The Doctor will fix everything.

(Ianto ignores the little voice in his head that reminds him that the Doctor never fixed Torchwood Four, never averted the Battle of Canary Wharf in Ianto’s time.

Time isn’t linear, and maybe Canary Wharf isn’t a fixed point.

Maybe they can save everyone this time.)

*.~.*.~.*

It’s sheer chance that Ianto is between the Doctor and the TARDIS when Jack tumbles to a stop in front of him, because the Time Lord immediately staggers back, and Ianto can see that his surprise is about to become flight.

( _Fear,_ his gift says when he looks at the Doctor. _Uncertainty, guilt, horror, sadness. ‘I helped him become this, I abandoned him, he’s wrong and I don't know how to see him differently.’_ )

So he just…catches the Doctor, very gently, by the elbow and holds him in place.

Wide brown eyes settle on him, uncertain and so very settled at the same time, and Ianto says softly, “Sorry, sir, but I don't think I can let you leave him again.”

And then Jack is in front of them, face set, and the Doctor sighs and runs a hand over his face.

“Hello, Jack,” he says after a moment, weary and _old_ in a way humans can never be.

“Doctor,” Jack says, and his cheerful, mobile features are somewhere between sad, angry, and bewildered.

(Ianto opens his hand and lets the Doctor go, stepping back. This isn’t his affair, and he doubts he can help with it.)

The Doctor’s gaze shifts away, slide back, and Ianto closes his eyes against the grief in Jack's face. _No,_ he thinks, because he doesn't have to get impressions off Jack to know that the Captain has been waiting for the Time Lord a very long time already. Jack is, from what Ianto knows of the future, immortal, and it seems the Doctor has something to do with this.

 _No,_ he thinks again, because Jack is too brave and strong and funny and wonderful to be dismissed the way the Doctor is doing. _No, I won't let you do this to him, so STOP_.

Something snaps, something rearranges, and Ianto staggers into the wall of the blue police box as his legs suddenly give way beneath him. Jack cries out, the Doctor yelps, and the world resettles with a nearly audible _click_.

(Somewhere, maybe only in Ianto’s head, his mother chuckles and whispers, “Silly boy,” because Ianto has always been good at controlling everything except his heart, and his heart is where his power lies.)

“Oh,” Ianto whispers, staring at Jack, because _Marked_ suddenly means so much more than it did before.

(He’s always been able to control perceptions—other people’s impressions—to a small degree, like a walking psychic paper. It was one of the things that made him so valuable to Torchwood Four, but this is utterly new and unexpected. And it’s all for Jack—only for Jack.)

The Doctor is staring, too, mouth open and eyes wide, and then he laughs. He laughs like a little kid on Christmas morning, overjoyed and so very excited, and lunges forward to sweep Jack up in a tight hug.

“You're alive!” he cries. “You're alive and I can _look at you_! You're not wrong!”

Jack seems confused, but he returns the hug, grinning anyway. “Didn't think you'd be the type to look, Doc,” he teases, because Jack is always teasing. “See something you like?”

The Doctor pulls back, also grinning, and swats Jack on the arm. “Not like that, you incorrigible rascal! You're a fixed point, a fact, and it’s Time Lord nature to avoid those, but—” He cuts himself off and whirls, leveling a long finger at Ianto. “It was you! What did you do, what was it?”

Because he doesn't seem angry, Ianto lets himself relax a little, and smiles. “I just…wanted it,” he says with a shrug. “You might be the last of the Time Lords, Doctor, but you've still got a brain, and it’s still vulnerable to psychics, if they're the right kind. I don't know how long it will last, though, or whether it’s permanent.”

The Doctor regards him shrewdly for a moment, then claps him on the shoulder and grins again. “No matter, it worked! Come on, Jack, come and see Rose! She won't know what hit her!” With that, he turns and bounds off, a millennia-old child with far too much energy and enthusiasm. Ianto rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and looks at Jack.

The Captain is staring after the Doctor, eyes soft and smile gentle. When he feels Ianto’s gaze, he looks over, though, and turns that gentle smile on Ianto.

“He’s the same as ever,” he murmurs, and offers Ianto his arm. “If you've given this back to me, Mr. Jones, I don't know how I’ll ever work off the debt.” Then his grin widens, and he winks. “Though I might have a few ideas, of course.”

“Of course,” Ianto echoes dryly. It takes a large percent of his willpower to keep from rolling his eyes again as he steers Jack towards the still-open door of the TARDIS. “I'm sure you do, Jack. Let’s follow the nice Doctor and see if we can’t fix the rest of it, hm?”

*.~.*.~.*

“There's something wrong with all of this,” the Doctor mutters, raking his hands through his hair and making it stand on end. “The Void, you see the Void when you look at the Ghosts, so they're probably coming from a parallel universe _across_ the Void. But what broke the barriers between the universes in the first place? Torchwood’s making it worse, they're using the energy, but—”

He breaks off, shoving his glasses up his nose, and frowns at the controls. “Hmm. I think we need to do a bit of poking around in Torchwood itself.”

Jack, from where he’s curled up with a still-smiling Rose tucked under one arm, shakes his head. “Sorry, but I don't think I’ll be able to get you in. Hartman knows I was a Companion, so she’ll be suspicious of anyone who comes in with me. I haven’t even taken Ianto, and we’ve been here almost two weeks.”

“We can't just set the TARDIS down inside, somewhere out of the way?” Rose asks, brow furrowed in contemplation.

“No.” Jack pulls a face. “I wouldn't put it past Hartman to have a dozen security protocols in place to find the TARDIS. She’d know.”

Ianto flicks a glance between the four other members of their mismatched group, but holds his silence.

The Doctor seems to read something in it, because he transfers narrowed eyes to Ianto, arching a brow. “You're not one of Jack's little Torchwood team, then?”

“Not exactly.” Ianto hesitates for another moment, and then offers, “But I might be able to take you in, Doctor, if Four’s security is as impenetrable as I remember. As long as there's no communication between the branches, it should work. Jack can bring Rose as a new member of Torchwood Three, and we can meet up in the Tower.”

“Brilliant!” With a whirl and a bounce, the Doctor is gone, headed for the door again. “Allons-y! And why couldn't your name be Alonso, wouldn't that just be fantastic? Then I could say, ‘Allons-y, Alonso!’ and off we’d go!”

Ianto rolls his eyes and wonders if one can sprain something doing that too many times, but follows nevertheless.

*.~.*.~.*

“I'm not entirely sure about this,” Rose mutters, pulling at her neat blouse and pencil skirt. “I look like a bloody secretary.”

“That's the point,” Jack says with a wide grin, batting her hand away. “And I think you look gorgeous.” 

“Your taste is suspect, Jack,” Ianto murmurs absently, watching the door from his position out of the sight of the CCTV cameras. “Don't worry, Ms. Tyler, people only see what they're expecting to. If they think Jack just hired you for your looks, they won't see your brain, and you'll have the advantage.”

Jack splutters something defensive, but Rose laughs. “I like you,” she announces, beaming. “I think I want to keep you. Can we keep him, Doctor?”

“No, he’s Jack's,” the Doctor says, just as absent as Ianto, though Ianto can feel the Time Lord’s gaze on the back of his head rather than the Tower.

But there's no time for anything else, because a young woman has just entered Torchwood One without an access card, sliding up the sleeve of her blouse to show something on her arm to the guard at the door. “There,” Ianto says, straightening up. “That’s how they do it. Doctor, let’s go, and whatever you do _don't talk_.”

The Doctor splutters, too, sounding amusingly like Jack for a moment, but Ianto is halfway across the square by the time he recovers. The Time Lord has to hurry after him, falling into step a few meters from the door.

The guard is already stepping out, one hand raised to stop Ianto’s brisk forward pace, but Ianto simply shoves his sleeve up to bare the tattoo, even though the motion brings back enough memories to knot his gut in a dozen places. His heart stutters in his chest as the guard blinks, and for a moment all he can imagine is failure, the Handlers coming for him once more to drag him into the depths of Four and leaving the Doctor stranded in the middle of Torchwood with no way out.

The Doctor’s hand closes on his other elbow, out of sight, and he hisses, “Happy, confident thoughts, Ianto! Happy, confident thoughts!”

His mind snaps from horror to desperate surety. _We will get through; you'll let us through,_ he thinks fiercely, and feels perceptions shift like a nebula around them. _We’re nothing special, we’re just Torchwood Four, don't look at us too closely, nothing to see here, let us through._

Obediently, the guard nods and steps back, opening the door, and they're inside.

(And if the Doctor has to hold Ianto up, if Ianto’s knees are as week as a newborn kitten’s and his head is spinning from using an ability he hasn't touched since he got to Cardiff, neither of them says anything about it when they look at each other in quiet triumph.)

*.~.*.~.*

There’s something utterly unsettling about guiding the Doctor through Torchwood Tower’s main lobby and having not one person glance at them. Ianto is tense and a bit jumpy, ready to throw himself to the floor to avoid the guns he _knows_ the guards inside are carrying, but he also remembers the Doctor’s words, and keeps his thoughts as positive as he’s able.

Torchwood One hasn't changed all that much since Ianto was last there (there before? Time traveling is always hell on the verb tenses), so he’s able to guide them to a relatively out of the way conference room and lock the rest of the Tower out.

“All right,” he says firmly, turning to the Doctor. “Where do we start?”

The Doctor blinks at him, as though caught off guard. Then, with a grin, he flaps his hands and says, “Well, you seem to know where you're going; let’s just keep that up, yes?”

It takes a great deal of effort not to slap a palm over his eyes and hold it there until the world goes back to being (relatively) sane. Over nine centuries old, and the Doctor is still flying by the seat of his pants.

For the love of little green apples.

“Right,” Ianto repeats, this time wearily. “I saw a directory on our way in. The main science areas are three floors down.”

*.~.*.~.*

Ianto is not nearly as happy being back in Torchwood Tower as he makes it seem.

(Admittedly, this is already fairly _un_ happy, but it’s even worse than it appears.)

Fear bubbles in his gut like acid, and there's cold terror spreading through each of his limbs. Ianto keeps his breathing even only through careful concentration as he guides the Doctor through One’s rabbit warren of halls.

Of all the places Ianto could be in the world, this is the second to last on his list. Only being back in Four’s grasp could be worse.

The Doctor is watching him as they walk, head tipped a little to one side. Ianto glances at him with a questioning lift of one brow, and the Time Lord stops walking. Because it’s polite, Ianto stops, too, and turns to face him.

Long, startlingly gentle fingers close around his wrist, turning his arm so that the mark is bare. “What’s this, then?” the Doctor asks. “People keep looking at it like it’s something terrifying.”

“Like _I'm_ terrifying,” Ianto corrects, though he doesn't pull away. Surely, if anyone will be non-judging, it’s this man. “It’s the symbol for a conscript of Torchwood Four, someone of partial alien descent raised to be an agent and use their heritage to further the Institute’s aims.”

It takes a moment for the full meaning of his words to settle between them, but then the Doctor’s fingers become iron bands around his wrist, and a fearful darkness fills his eyes.

This is the Time Lord, Ianto realizes, swallowing down an involuntary gasp. This is the ancient being who destroyed the Daleks and his own people in one blow.

“Torchwood Four?” the Doctor repeats sharply.

“Yes,” Ianto whispers, even though it’s just barely a question.

Brown eyes stay fixed on him, unwavering, as the Doctor puts the pieces together. “Ah,” he says after a moment. “You’re from the future. And your people…the intuitive psychics of Bandraginus V. I should have realized sooner.”

He lets go of Ianto’s arm and heads down the corridor with quick steps, the conversation clearly over.

Ianto stares after him for another moment, wondering.

It was almost as if the Doctor hadn’t _known_ about Four.

*.~.*.~.*

Ianto learned to pick a lock before he learned the Earth was round, so it’s the work of a half-second to break open a scientist’s locker and steal a white lab coat—fortunately lacking any sort of identification tags, as from what Ianto remembers Torchwood Four’s Handlers aren’t keen on them.

“Here,” he tells the Doctor, shoving it at him. “Put this on, and if anyone asks questions about us, look down your nose at them and act arrogant. They'll assume you're my Handler.”

The Doctor opens his mouth to ask what is probably the obvious question, but after a quick look at Ianto’s face he subsides and tugs the coat on over his suit. It looks a bit odd, Ianto thinks, looking at him critically, but it will probably pass. No one ever wants to spend time looking at the Handlers.

For himself, Ianto simply keeps his sleeve rolled up above his elbow, the interlocking hexagons of Torchwood’s symbol, along with the words ‘ _Magnus ab integro sæclorum nascitur ordo,_ ’ forming Torchwood Four’s mark.

Almost as though he can't help himself, the Doctor touches the letters, and Ianto murmurs, “’The great order of the ages is born anew,’ if I remember correctly. I believe they're referring to the British Empire.”

The Time Lord’s mouth is a little thinner and tighter than normal, but he follows Ianto through the halls without a word.

*.~.*.~.*

There is a man hurrying down the passage, occupied with his tablet. Rajesh Singh, his nametag declares him, and the fact that he’s important enough to _have_ a nametag draws Ianto’s attention immediately. He follows the scientist, the Doctor trailing a step behind, to a heavy door with an electronic lock.

(The Doctor’s sonic screwdriver is incredibly useful, and Ianto promises himself that he won't have a single other disparaging thought about it.)

There’s no time to make a plan, and Ianto isn’t sure he could even if there was—he’s nervous and wary and far, far too angry (with himself, with Torchwood in general, with Four in particular for making him into _this_ ) for thinking sensibly.

“Follow my lead,” he tells the Doctor, and as the doors open, he strides in without a single attempt to hide.

Singh is standing in front of a computer terminal, and Ianto walks straight up to him, face blank the way Four always taught him, back stiff and body language throwing off a thousand warnings of DO NOT TOUCH in flashing, knee-high letters.

“Dr. Singh?” he asks coolly.

The man looks at him, glances down at his arm, and then looks back up with narrowing eyes.

He knows. Not everyone in Torchwood does, about Four, but those in power who are corrupted enough to look the other way always do.

“Yes?” he asks—carefully, stepping back a little, because people are always wary of Four’s agents.

Ianto nods shortly to him. “I'm Jones, and this is Smith.” Anyone who hears that will likely assume both names are false, which amuses Ianto greatly and furthers their cause at the same time. “We were asked to look at the—”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Singh cuts him off, and while there’s a faint twist of contemptuous anger to his mouth, there's also relief in his eyes, that someone else might have answers. “It’s over there. I’ll clear my people out. Don't break anything.” With a wave of his hand, he dismisses both of them, summons the other scientists in the room, and stalks out.

The door closes softly behind him.

“Well,” the Doctor says after a moment. “That's probably the easiest sneaking I've ever done.” He sounds like he doesn't know whether to be disappointed by that, or happy.

Ianto rolls his eyes and waves him on towards the great sphere hanging at the far end of the room, trying not to look at it. Even being in the same room is just about giving him hives.

“Go,” he orders, fighting down a spark of amusement.

Judging by the grin the Doctor gives him before he goes bounding off, he fails.

(Somehow, Ianto can't bring himself to mind.)

*.~.*.~.*

Ten minutes later, neither of them is smiling.

 _‘A Void ship’_ echoes through the air far more loudly than it has any right to.

Ianto and the Doctor stare at each other for a moment, both grim, and Ianto reaches for his phone.

“Right,” he says decisively. “I’ll call Jack.”

*.~.*.~.*

“We have to send it back,” Ianto says flatly.

The Void ship gleams behind him, a black hole leading down to nothingness. It makes his skin crawl and his head ache with the sheer _wrongness_ of it, and even the presence of the Doctor—who feels like determination and old wisdom and joy in life and enthusiasm—cannot temper the reaction.

“We've gotten Hartman to stop the Ghost Shifts for now,” Jack offers, but he sounds grim even over the speakerphone, and Ianto can't imagine what he had to do convince Hartman—or bribe her. “But I don't know how long we can keep her away from the damned thing. She’s certain that such a clean, perfect source of energy can't be anything suspicious.”

The Doctor rubs his hands together, frowning thoughtfully. “And the Ghosts, can't forget about them. Right. I think…”

“The Void energy,” Jack finishes eagerly, seizing on the plan, half a step behind the Doctor but still a step ahead of the rest of them. “Open the rift one more time, suck everything back through, and shut it again, permanently. Can we do that?”

“’Course we can!” the Doctor returns cheerfully. “Keep them from starting another Shift, Jack, we’ll be right there.” He snaps Ianto’s phone shut and hands it back. “Well, Mr. Jones, how do you feel about another trip through the Tower?”

Ianto chews on his lip for a moment, assessing. He reaches for his ability again, tries to shift perception, but it’s like trying to grab a hold of a thousand slippery, windblown threads.

He comes back to himself, breathless as if the wind has been knocked out of him, with a twist of vertigo. The Doctor is gripping his elbow, looking worried, and Ianto shakes his head carefully.

“I don't think I’ll be much help,” he murmurs. “It might be best if you just left me here, Doctor.”

The Doctor looks at him, eyes warm and immeasurably deep, and grins. “Nonsense,” he cries, and slaps Ianto’s shoulder. “Now, how about running? How d’ you feel about that?”

The answer, it turns out, is _exhilarated_.

*.~.*.~.*

There is a place that Ianto goes sometimes, when he dreams. It’s a peaceful place, a beautiful one, for all that he can never quite determine what makes it either.

But there's a woman there, a woman with long black hair and a pretty face, coral lips always quirked in a kind smile. She sits on a stool in front of a window overlooking a green field, hands busy as they flicker over the silver thread she holds, the applewood loom where a tapestry is forever in a half-finished state.

As Ianto watches, she looks up and turns that sweet, pretty smile on him; her blue eyes are the precise shade of his own. “Of course it’s not done,” she says, and Ianto knows she’s laughing at him, but it’s too wonderful to matter. “You're still alive, my sweet. The story still has many endings yet to come.”

“What about this part of it?” he asks, compelled. His fingers ghost across the stitching that she’s still working on. “How will this end?”

Gently, she tugs his hand away from her work, folding their fingers together.

She’s warm.

Ianto’s not sure why that surprises him, but it does.

“Silly boy,” she murmurs, “hasn't anyone ever told you not to spoil the story halfway through?”

The look Ianto gives her is full of despair, of hopelessness, because he knows himself and his life, and happy endings have never, ever been his. She sees it on his face, in his eyes, and her smile turns sad and sympathetic. “Oh, child.”

Her lips brush across his forehead, and an elegant hand ruffles his hair.

“Not everything has to end in tragedy. Happiness just takes a little more effort, and a bit of help.”

 _Jack_ , Ianto thinks, and smiles back at her.

*.~.*.~.*

They very, very nearly don't make it.

There are Cybermen in the Tower, hidden away in side corridors and construction areas, hovering over their bloody conversion tables—Ianto’s nightmares given form.

 _Lisa’s_ nightmares given form.

Ianto and the Doctor meet them entirely by accident, bolting around a set of guards who’ve chased them through seven floors already.

(“Run!” the Doctor had shouted when they came across the first one, and Ianto had wanted to roll his eyes and smack the Doctor with the idea of _discretion, do you not know how to keep a low profile for the **love of little green apples** , spaceman!_)

Predictably, the Cybermen are none too happy with being discovered, and chase them.

Doggedly.

With very big guns.

“Is this how your day usually goes?” Ianto demands breathlessly, flinging himself through a closing doorway just under a bolt from an energy rifle.

The Doctor gives Ianto a vaguely sheepish smile, as though he doesn't know whether to be enthusiastic or chagrinned. “More or less, though the Cybermen are admittedly a bit beyond the normal scope of things.”

“Brilliant,” Ianto mutters, as something very large and metallic clangs into the closed door, denting it. He sighs, the Doctor grins, and they're off again.

*.~.*.~.*

Jack is waiting, a forbidding figure blocking the doorway, when they skid around the corner three short steps ahead of their pursuers—more security guards, new ones, as the last group had met the Cybermen somewhere in the middle and subsequently realized that two skinny men in suits running through their tower were the least of their worries.

The Captain steps neatly to the side as they barrel past, and then slams the door after them, locking it swiftly. The guards start pounding, but Torchwood Tower is built to survive an alien invasion, given enough warning, and there's no way they can get through.

Ianto staggers to a stop beside one of the desks, and recoils in horror at the sight of the body splayed out on the floor beside it. One of the Bluetooth devices Hartman’s employees seem to favor lies next to him, a long strip of nerve tissue dangling from it.

Ianto’s stomach churns threateningly, and he lurches away.

Jack catches him with a hand under his elbow, hauling him close to his chest.

“Shh,” he murmurs, turning them away so the corpse—and Ianto can see another like it, and another, under other desks—is hidden from view. “They were already dead. I just finished things. I'm sorry.”

The only thing in Ianto’s head is the image of Lisa falling, riddled with bullets. Of Torchwood Four, burning to the ground. Of Cybermen, converted from the conscripts in Four’s cells, and given no choice in death the same way they were given no choice in life.

“Gods,” he whispers, pressing his face into the lapel of Jack's coat. “It’s bloody Four all over again.”

*.~.*.~.*

But it’s not, because they win this time. The Void ship returns to the Void, hopefully never to reemerge, and the Cybermen Ghosts follow after.

They win, and that's the hardest part of this whole bloody thing to believe.

But, as Jack laughs and twirls Rose, as the Doctor crows with victory, Ianto watches, and in that moment, _he believes_.

When Jack turns to him, whirls him into his arms and dips him like some dame, as Jack pulls him upright and kisses him right there in front of God, Hartman, the Doctor, and everyone, Ianto can't be anything but grateful and so very, very overjoyed.


End file.
